


you didn't make me up inside your head

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art Shows, Classical References, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras goes to Grantaire's first art show and overhears something that changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you didn't make me up inside your head

**Author's Note:**

> written for [this](http://attackofthechewenod.tumblr.com/post/56141144206/imagine-grantaire-wearing-a-super-nice-outfit-and) tumblr prompt.

“ _Eponine_ ,” Grantaire groans, pulling against her as she tries to pull him out the door.  ”I don’t want to go.”

"You have to, I just spent a good half hour on just your hair and I think Cosette might cry if she doesn’t get to see you in your suit."  Eponine yanks a little harder.  "Besides, this is your first big art show, everyone’s coming and it will be awkward as  _fuck_  if you’re not there.”

Grantaire frowns as he let go of the doorframe.  ”I guess.”

“ _Enjolras_  is going to be there,” she adds.  ”He was actually the first one to RSVP about it — actually the only one of us to formally RSVP.  But still.  He’s coming, so you’re going.”

"I hate you, Thenardier," he mutters, flushing.

"No you don’t," she responds sharply, hooking one arm around his.  "You love me, and because you love me, you’re not going to make a fuss."

He sighs, and they head for the show.

\--

Enjolras is late, technically speaking.  He is the last to arrive, and he’s not at all dressed up; he’s actually still buttoning up his collared shirt as he runs down the last block, and his tie is a lost cause.

He’d wanted to look nice, but then he’d had a breakthrough on one of his speeches and lost track of the time.

So he makes do and skids to a stop in front of the gallery.  It’s full of people, and he stands on tiptoe to look around for people he knows.  Grantaire’s not the only artist on exhibit, but he’s got a considerable amount of pieces up, and Enjolras recognizes at least two of them, both portraits — one of Jehan dressed as Lord Byron, and the other of himself.  He’s never seen the latter one before, and he doesn’t dare look at it too closely, a little afraid of what he might see.

He catches sight of Jehan, who is talking to Eponine, who has one hand curled around Grantaire’s arm —

_Oh._

_Grantaire._

Enjolras’s eyes widen, because Grantaire, Grantaire cleans up  _incredibly_  well.  He’s clean-shaven, the first time Enjolras has ever seen him so, and his hair seems to be curling more tightly, and that suit.

That  _suit._

Enjolras is vaguely sure that a suit like that should be —

 _CRASH_.

He walks into a wall.  A  _wall._   He’s so damn distracted by Grantaire that he walks into a goddamn  _wall._

And falls on his ass for good measure.

Jesus Christ he needs to get out of here, he’s made a fool of himself and he is underdressed and out of his element and there is no way he’s going to be able to  _talk to Grantaire like this._

Even the idea of that makes him want to puke.

Unfortunately, the universe doesn’t get the memo, and he hasn’t been on the floor for more than maybe five seconds before  _wham_ , there’s Grantaire in his  _suit_  with his  _hair_  and he looks worried and oh God his face is way too close and he’s  _touching him._

Enjolras is going to die.

Presently, he’s turning bright red as Grantaire asks him, “Hey, are you okay?  You kinda — are you okay?”

He nods, because it’s not like he can say  _There should be laws against you dressed like this_ , and he manages, “Sorry I’m late.” _  
_

Grantaire blinks at him.  ”You do know that there’s no real set schedule?  I mean, you’re probably not buying anything, so it’s not like you have to worry about that or whatever.”

"It’s your first show," Enjolras mumbles, curling his legs under him so he can stand up.  "Was anyone else late?"

"No," Grantaire admits.  He stands as well, looking Enjolras over again.

Enjolras flushes a little redder.  ”The paintings look nice, though.”

Grantaire laughs.  ”Thank you.”

There’s a moment of quiet in which Enjolras realizes that everyone is staring at him.  He covers his eyes with his hand for a moment.  ”Sorry.”

"Nothing to be sorry for," Grantaire mutters, and he reaches out to start tying Enjolras’s tie.  "I’m glad you came, anyway.  And you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t somehow manage to cause a scene."

There’s teasing in his voice and Enjolras isn’t sure whether to laugh of be offended, but Grantaire’s hands are gentle and he doesn’t tighten the tie very hard, so he has that to deal with, too.  ”Still, this is your thing.  You deserve attention for your art, not for having the under-dressed friend who walked into a wall.”

"We could pass it off as performance art if you want," Grantaire prods, smiling.

Enjolras glares at him without much heat.  ”No,” he mutters.

Grantaire laughs at him.  ”Now come on, you have to actually look at the paintings, and I might have to sell a few.”

He’s grinning, in his element, and Enjolras has to swallow a knot in his throat before he nods and follows him over to their friends.  Grantaire is rarely this settled, this… _okay_ _._

Someone approaches to talk to Grantaire about one of his paintings — the one of Enjolras, actually — and Grantaire shifts, a little more guarded.  Enjolras watches quietly, trying to read from Grantaire’s body language what he’s afraid of seeing in the painting itself.

"Is he real?" the potential buyer asks, and Enjolras hides behind Combeferre.

Grantaire laughs.  ”Do you want me to say I made him up inside my head?”  There’s something a little tight, a little uncomfortable in his voice.

"No — Yes — maybe?  He just seems too beautiful to be real."

"Some days I think the same thing," Grantaire replies, voice tempered soft, almost musing.

"I guess it’s like Pygmalion and Galatea, then?"

Grantaire is quiet for a long time.  ”Exactly.”

It’s a lie, it has to be a lie, Enjolras  _knows_  it’s a lie, and it still claws into him, scoops out his insides and makes him want to shake or run or hit something.

He doesn’t do any of those things; he turns around and looks at Cosette, who looks at him with pity.

It feels like everyone knows something he doesn’t.

There’s something he doesn’t understand, some final piece that won’t slot into place.   _Pygmalion and Galatea_.

Grantaire didn’t make him up.  He’s not a statue brought to life by lo —

He chokes on nothing at all and excuses himself.  He races his way to the bathroom and hides in one of the two stalls.  

He sits down on the toilet and puts his face in his hands.

_Oh god, oh god oh god._

Grantaire may not have made him up, but he has made him  _better_.

Enjolras takes a deep breath, doesn’t let himself think about how.  He doesn’t think about how Galatea came to life.  Because it’s too much all at once and he’s  _terrified._

He takes a long moment to gather himself and then leaves the bathroom.

The prospective buyer is nowhere to be seen; Grantaire is leaning against a table, sketching.  The others have spread throughout the gallery.

"Grantaire?" he asks.

Grantaire looks at him, puts the sketchbook and pencil down.  ”Yeah?”

"Pygmalion and Galatea?" Enjolras asks quietly.  He can’t say it more plainly than that — he’s too afraid to.  "Did you mean it?"

"You heard that?"  Grantaire stiffens with fear.

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire looks at everything but Enjolras.  ”You’re not a statue come to life, for all you might look like one.”

"Pygmalion was in love with Galatea."

"People fall in love with things they shouldn’t all the time."  Grantaire turns to walk away.  "Sorry."

Enjolras grabs him by the wrist.  ”But she came to life.  And she loved him back.”

Grantaire’s brow furrows in confusion, then realization dawns over his face.  Enjolras waits for the inevitable — Grantaire already thinks this is a bad idea, after all.

That’s not what happens.  Grantaire takes a step toward him and skims a hand across his cheek, lingering there for only a moment.

He pulls away.  ”I didn’t make you up.”

"You make me better, though," Enjolras confesses.  "You make me better and I think that’s more important."

Grantaire stares at him now.  ”Are you saying?”

"Can I kiss you?"

"You — you want —" Grantaire breaks off with a wordless, punched-out sort of  noise.  "Yes."

So Enjolras does, and pulls that noise out of him again.

The painting doesn’t get sold that night.  It winds up in Enjolras’s apartment anyway.


End file.
